Today. Virginia.

At some point during the day of April 20, 1999, my high school went into a momentary panic. Not only did they have their hands full trying to weed out stoned students (seems that a lot of proud Coronado Thunderbirds loved them some 4/20), but the administration had just received word that a high school in a small town in Colorado had just been shot up by two students. I remember there being a fear that the shooting happened on Hitler's birthday for a reason. A fear that there would be other shootings in other schools. We didn't go into lock-down. In fact, we still transitioned between classes without so much as a glance over our shoulders. But the teachers stopped teaching. We just turned on the televisions and waited for updates. How many casualties? How many fatalities? It was over sooner than we realized, but everything seemed to change that day. The next day, our teachers still didn't teach. We talked. We journaled. There was a brief assembly, during which the school guidance counsellors said to go to them if we needed to talk. (Nobody at Coronado had any ties to Columbine, but knowing my classmates, a lot of people showed up in the counselling center just to get out of class.)


The day after that, my geography teacher, a Vietnam veteran named Mr. Hunt, revealed his escape plan for us, in case a shooting happened while we were in his classroom. Coronado, you see, is made up of a number of individual buildings, two of which with large central courtyards, that you walk through and between to get to class. Our classroom had a long support beam running between one of its windows and the roof of the gym building. And Mr. Hunt's idea was that we all file out of the window and crawl along the beam until we reached the gym. Nevermind that the gym didn't have roof access. Nevermind that, if a shooter was standing on the roof of our building, the gym, or any of the other buildings, we'd be exposing ourselves. That was Mr. Hunt's plan, and by god, we were going to stick with it.

After revealing his brilliant plan, Mr. Hunt decided it was soapbox time. "This was a terrible tragedy," he said, "but at the same time, there were signs. These kids were saying they were going to kill someone."

And of course, fifteen year-old wise-ass Jill raises her hand. "Ummm, Mr. Hunt? Do you mean to tell me that you've never been so upset or frustrated with a person that you've said 'I could kill him'? I mean, I failed a science test the other day. And I could say that I'm so upset with Mr. Crofford that I could just kill him. But that's just an expression. I wouldn't mean it." The conversation went on, the bell rang, class was dismissed.

During third period of the next day, I was sent for by the Assistant Principal's office. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Frankly, sir, I don't have a clue."

"Do you know what you said in class?"

"I participate in all of my classes. I say a lot of things." Really, I wasn't trying to be a wise-ass this time. I was genuinely confused. "Which class do you mean?"

"Mr. Hunt's class, Jillian. Do you know what you said in Mr. Hunt's class?"

I didn't, really. Not at first. The class discussion had pretty much washed over me. And apparently, Mr. Hunt had very selective hearing, because at this point, the AP picked up his notes and read: "'I'm so upset with Mr. Crofford that I could just kill him.'"

"With all due respect, sir, that was taken completely out of context. I was giving an example."

"An example?"

"Yes sir. I was trying to explain why making a statement like that doesn't automatically mean that a person is going to go crazy and start shooting people. It's a common expression when you're frustrated. That's all."

At this point, it was probably pretty apparent that the petite blonde honors student whose most subversive trait was an ability to back-talk was not a threat to the student body at Coronado High School. "You can go. Just be careful about what you say around here."

Before returning to class, I called my parents to tell them what had happened. Just in case Mr. Hunt tried to call them. And also because I thought it was kind of funny. But my dad didn't. "My daughter is not a psychopath!" He called the school as soon as I hung up and arranged a joint conference with Mr. Hunt and the AP. I don't know what happened in there, but he must have gotten Mr. Hunt good, because I couldn't get an "A" from him for the rest of the semester.

It's been eight years since Columbine. Things have changed. My senior year of high school, our school even hosted a "crisis drill." Fake shooters took over the buildings, while class was in session, for almost a full day. Five SWAT teams were dispatched for the drill. I have video somewhere. Kids are getting in trouble for airing their frustrations on MySpace. Metal detectors are more and more prevalent in the entries to public schools. Things that were once allowed on campus now are not. And the presence of cell phones is generally politely ignored—just in case.

These are all the things I think about when I get the news that there's been another shooting at another school. These were the things that I thought about today when I first heard about the mass killings on the campus of Virginia Tech this morning. As I write this sentence, The New York Times is reporting at least thirty-one fatalities, plus the shooter. It is, and I quote, "what appears to be the deadliest shooting rampage in American history." I'm nowhere near Virginia. Don't know anyone at Virginia Tech. And I'm still horrified and a little scared, and I don't want to turn on the TV because I know that I'll burst into tears. I just don't know what possesses a person to wake up and say "today, mass homicide." The Times says that the shooter was looking for his girlfriend. He sure choose a funny way to find her.

Phillyist's sister site, DCist, is keeping abreast of the story, but we've had some server errors today, so you might have better luck just checking your favorite news sites. I'm not sure whether I'll be updating this post any further. I don't know that there's any more to say...